


Wash Your Hands of Falling Stars

by alullabytoleaveby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, attempted hurt/comfort, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alullabytoleaveby/pseuds/alullabytoleaveby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never in a million years did she think that there he’d be, in aisle three at the Walgreens where she worked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash Your Hands of Falling Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [8sword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/gifts).



> For the lovely 8sword, who is endlessly encouraging, especially when it comes to people writing Claire Novak fic, and [this anon](http://subjecttochange8.tumblr.com/post/101045138856/is-it-bad-that-all-i-want-is-for-someone-to-write-a) on her tumblr. This is nothing like what you wanted, Nonny, but I hope you see it and enjoy it anyways.

It figures that she sees him when she has finally, _finally_ convinced herself to stop looking for him.

There have been so many—too many—false alarms over the years, flickers out of the corners of her eyes, reflections in store windows, wishful thinking every time she saw a tall, dark haired man in a crowd and each and every one of them had left her with a sense of crushing disappointment and a wave of grief she didn’t know how to manage. Still, she’d kept looking, searching, _hoping_ even when she thought she had no hope until her mother had begged her, pleaded with her, to please _please_ just let it go. 

So she had.

Her father was never coming back. Acceptance of this fact was almost freeing, allowed for something to balance out within her. 

So never in a million years did she think that there he’d be in aisle three at the Walgreens where she worked.

There are two men with him, dressed in layers of flannel and leather, one with hair that’s probably a bit too long, and while it’s been six years, Claire knows they have to be the Winchesters. All three of them are crowded around the small section of the store devoted to bandages and antibiotic ointments, too engrossed in their shopping to notice that Claire is standing at the end of the aisle, box cutter in hand, and unable to look away from them.

He looks…well, honestly, he looks like shit. Like he’s running on three hours of sleep and coming off of a stomach bug. His skin is pale and there’s a slight bit of sweat on his forehead. His trench coat—it’s not the same one her dad had and that difference almost throws her off, makes her feel like she’s just seeing things after all—is dirty and wrinkled and, oh god, is that a smear of blood on the sleeve?

She must make some sort of noise (she’s not sure—the whole experience feels like it’s some sort of dream, it has to be), because the shorter brother tenses and looks straight at her. He frowns, tugs at the sleeves of both his companions and then Claire is under the scrutiny of three people that she was sure she’d never see again. 

He’s the first one to recognize her, shock making his eyes go wide and his mouth part. Honestly Claire’s a little surprised that he does. It’s been years and surely the undercut, heavy eye makeup, and piercings (her nose, her eyebrow, and the top of her ear) would have thrown him off slightly. But he knows her instantly and Claire is reminded that she has housed him in her body, allowed his presence and power to push her own conscious autonomy down deep. She could get surgery, change her face, and he’d still be able to pick her out, immediately, in a crowd. 

“Claire?” he asks hesitantly and something breaks inside her chest at the sound of his voice. It’s just this shade of _not right_.

But she has to be sure.

“Daddy?” She croaks out with a shaky breath and Castiel flinches like she slapped him. 

Well. That answers that. 

She drops the box cutter and runs, sneakers squeaking on the tile floor as she bursts through the Employees Only door. She crouches down in the corner, arms around her knees, and shaking, until fifteen minutes later Gary, the night manager, pages her to the front.

She goes because she has to, because she wants to keep her job, but she’d be lying if she says that she didn’t sigh in relief when she passes aisle three and it’s empty.

———

She always thought that it would change things, seeing her father again. Or well, seeing her father’s body.

But it doesn’t. She goes to school Monday through Friday. She works after school at the Walgreens and does the late shift on the weekends. She keeps her head down, her mouth shut, and tries to fake it as much as she can (she doesn’t want to worry her mother, after all).

Still. She thought that, at the very least, she’d feel different. Feel relieved or happy or sad. But nothing’s changed. She’s just as miserable and fucked up and hurting as she was before she laid eyes on him again. Really, seeing him again has only brought up all the feelings she’s spent years pushing down, blunting with age and time. Now they’re sharp and fresh and vibrant and it makes her heart ache with every beat in her chest.

But mixed in with all of those feelings is the heavy weight of expectation, anticipation. 

He’s going to come back. She knows it. 

So she waits.

——— 

It takes a week for him to turn back up at the Walgreens, tentatively walking through the automatic door and scanning the store, searching for her. As luck would have it, Claire is on register that day, so she’s right up front and easily spotted. He zeroes in on her and she tenses under his scrutiny. Every cell in her body is screaming at her to duck down, to hide until he goes away, and it takes all her effort not to throw up. He gives her a cautious smile, approaches her slowly like a spooked animal.  

Claire supposes that it’s not that far off from the truth.

“Hello,” he says once he’s close enough. He rests his hands on the counter and she looks down at them, remembering when those hands held her own, cupped her face, ruffled her hair. Her own hand twitches at her side, clenching and unclenching into a fist, as she fights off the urge to reach out and touch him. “It is you, Claire, right? I’m not mistaken?” he asks, his voice nervous and trembling and she realizes that she never returned his greeting.

Claire licks her cracked lips. “No.”

“No?”

“You’re…not mistaken. It’s me.” His posture relaxes slightly at the confirmation.

“I was hoping you’d be here when I came back. The Winchesters—Sam and Dean, do you remember them?” He pauses, allows for Claire to give a curt nod. “They didn’t think you would be.” The implication being that Claire would have taken one look at Castiel and run far far away. 

Claire did that once before, had no choice in the matter, really, but she’s going to do it again. 

“What do you want?” she asks because she can’t hold the question back anymore. 

“I’m sorry?” He asks, squinting and his brow furrowing. He even tilts his head to the side and suddenly, Claire is that little girl again, watching what seemed to be her father walk away from her and her mother in the middle of the night. At her sharp intake of breath, Castiel corrects his posture.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats and this time it’s not a question. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Claire can’t help but laugh.

“Well then why are you here?” she spits out because really, even an angel can’t be that oblivious. Castiel winces.

“I just thought…”

“What? That I’d be happy to see you? That I’d want to talk to you? So we could, what, reminisce? Talk about the good old days when took my father away from me? Or brought my family into a war that we had no business or desire to be a part of? Or how about that time you manipulated me into letting you _possess_ me? Is that what you wanted?” He seems almost taken aback by her sudden outburst and the shock and uncertainty flits over his face for a quick second before it is replaced with resignation.

“I…am not a good person. I know this.” He swallows thickly. “But your father, Claire, he was the best of men.” 

“My _father_ ,” Claire snarls, “was an religious fanatic and an asshole who left his wife and child, who put some mission from a God that doesn’t exist above caring about his family, and I wish that he at least had the sense to stay gone after he left the first time.”  

And oh god, Claire’s spent so long wishing to see her father one last time that she has never really understood just how angry she is. Suddenly it’s overwhelming, all consuming, bubbling up underneath the surface, and Claire bites the inside of cheek to clam herself down. Castiel’s face— _her father’s fac_ e—softens with sadness.

“You know that’s not true, Claire.” She breathes out heavily through her nose, not willing to argue anymore. Castiel licks his lips, takes a deep breath before he continues. “I’m…dying, Claire. Soon. It’s a long story. But I just wanted to let you know, and your mother too, that Jimmy was a good man. And that his sacrifice wasn’t in vain—the world is a safer place because of him. And he loved you, loved you more than anything in the world. I just need you to know that.”

There the slight sheen of tears in his eyes and Claire thought it wasn’t possible for her resent him any more than she already did, but he’s proven her wrong.

“I think you should go,” she says because if he doesn’t, she’s going to punch him in the face, break his nose. God, the _nerve_ of him. To come in here, where she works, where she can’t escape him, and try to tell her about her father. Like he knows her father better than her. As if he could waltz in here and give her some magical closure that would make up for the fact that he ruined her family. Did he think she was going to burst out into tears, thank him, absolve him of his sins?  

Claire’s not going to give him that satisfaction, even if she had it in her to forgive and forget. Maybe angels aren’t used to not getting their way, but Claire thinks that it’s probably about time that they did. They may be righteous celestial wavelengths but their actions also have consequences, just like any human’s. And yeah, maybe losing her father and making her and her mother go on the run from demons is small beans in the grand scheme of things. It’s no apocalypse, after all. But it still matters. 

It matters to her.  

Castiel takes a step back from the counter and nods. “Okay, if that’s what you want. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for hearing me out,” he says it voice flat, as if he’s rehearsed those three sentences in front of a mirror for hours before he dared to come back to see her. He walks towards the door, posture straight and stiff, purposeful, like he’s putting all of his effort into it. The sensor on the door detects his movement, slides open, and Claire, before she can stop herself, calls out to him.

He looks at her over his shoulder and Claire meets his gaze for the first time, unwavering. 

“When?” she asks. There’s no need for an explanation. His stare turns pensive for a quick second, calculating before smoothing out, blank once more.

“It’s been five years.” She nods, deflating slightly. Five years. Her father has been dead for five years. She has no idea how she feels about that piece of information but she’ll just have to figure that out later. Right now, she has to get back to work.

“Goodbye, Castiel.” She doesn’t expect to see him again, doesn’t ever want to. He smiles, just a quick quirk of his lips. 

“Goodbye, Claire.” And then he’s gone, the doors sliding shut behind him. 


End file.
